


Headlights on a dark road

by Tails89



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Car Accidents, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whumptober, always happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27325117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tails89/pseuds/Tails89
Summary: Stiles had the green light.Heknowshe had the green light. He’d been stopped on the red, it had gone green, and- then there was silence
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 3
Kudos: 322





	Headlights on a dark road

“Boyd and I are heading to the supermarket.”

“No, wait. Take me instead.” Stiles plants his hands on the kitchen table, pushing his chair back to balance on two legs.

“You’re supposed to be studying,” Derek tells him. He collects his keys and wallet from the bowl they keep on the counter. “You made me promise not to distract you.”

“That was like two hours ago,” Stiles whines. “People change. _I’ve_ changed! Please distract me.”

“It’s a twenty-minute trip to the supermarket.”

“It’s outside. Do you know how long it’s been since I saw the outside?”

“We went for a walk this morning,” Derek reminds him. “Fine.” He hip-checks the chair, grinning when Stiles almost overbalances. “But you’re not allowed to complain later that I’m an enabler.”

“You _are_ an enabler,” Stiles smirks, bouncing up from the table. “I love it.” He smacks Derek on the ass and disappears into their bedroom to find his shoes.

When he returns, Derek’s waiting for him in the living room with Erica and Boyd.

“How long have you two been here?” Stiles asks, sitting on the arm beside Boyd. “What’s wrong with your house that you gotta come watch my TV while _I_ have to study?”

“Technically,” Derek points out. “It’s my TV.”

“It’s the principle Derek.”

“It’s pack night,” Erica says. “And I want icecream.”

“You don’t deserve icecream.”

“Boyd Junior wants icecream.” Erica pouts, smoothing her hand across her swelling belly.

“Fine,” Stiles tells her. “Boyd Junior can have icecream.”

He hops off the couch and follows Derek down to the driveway.

“Can we take the Jeep?” Stiles pats the hood as he circles around to the driver’s side. “I haven’t driven her in ages, have I girl.”

“Your car has no legroom,” Derek says, pausing beside the Camaro. “I have to sit there with my knees up around my ears just to fit. I can think of better things to do with my knees up around my ears than sit in a car.”

“Well…” Stiles says slyly. “You can do _that_ in a car too.”

“Yoga?”

“You suck.”

Derek pulls a face.

“Don’t you dare say it.”

“I didn’t say anything. We should take my car. It’s better.”

“Agree to disagree.” Stiles waits with his hand on the door handle for Derek to give in with a long drawn out sigh and walk across to the Jeep.

“You did the right thing Der,” Stiles says, patting Derek’s thigh and backing out of the car park.

*

Stiles had the green light.

He _knows_ he had the green light. He’d been stopped on the red, it had gone green, and-

He doesn’t remember seeing the silver car fly through the intersection, but he remembers the _noise._ The crunch of metal and glass, the squeal of rubber and car horns blaring.

Then there is silence.

The sedan hits the Jeep on the weekend, sparing the squishy human the worst of the collision. Had it hit the driver’s side; Stiles would likely be dead. It sends the Jeep skidding across the asphalt and onto the grass, finally coming to rest pinning the Jeep up against a telephone pole.

“’les-“

Pain.

“ _’iles-_ “

But distant, like it’s happening to someone else.

“Jesus Stiles, open your eyes.”

Okay, maybe not so distant.

“Please Stiles.”

_Pain._

Stiles makes a noise, low in his throat, and scrunches his face against the waves of agony crashing down on him.

“Stiles?”

He blinks sluggishly, willing the world around him to stop spinning and focus. There’s an itch down the side of Stiles’s face and a rhythmic pounding behind his eyes that’s matching pace with his racing heart.

The blurred lump beside him leans closer and a face materialises.

“Hey.”

“’rek?”

Stiles squints at him. Derek’s half twisted in his seat, leaning against the door which has buckled inwards from the force of the collision. There’s blood running down his face, matting up his hair. There’s more blood on his jeans, _too much blood._

Stiles swallows down the panic, and his chest _burns_. It steals his breath and he pants, desperate for air but terrified of breathing too deep and jostling his ribs.

“-iles, I’m okay. I promise.” Derek reaches across to grab Stiles’s hand. “I’ll heal. It’s okay.”

It’s not, but Stiles forces himself to nod, to winded to respond verbally. He turns his gaze to what was once the windshield. The glass is gone, scattered throughout the totalled car.

Outside, a hysterical bystander is talking into a phone.

“No,” Stiles groans, struggling with his seatbelt.

“What?” Derek tries to sit up, grimacing as the movement pulls against healing injuries.

“I can’t afford ambulance.”

“Stiles stop. Stop.” Derek covers Stiles’s hands with his own. “Stop moving. _I_ can pay for the ambulance.”

He holds on until the emergency services arrive.

*

The police turn up first.

There are more of them than necessary, but every law enforcement officer in Beacon Hills knows the distinctive blue Jeep and they had all responded when the call came through dispatch.

The fire brigade arrives minutes later.

The fire fighters assess the incident while a deputy comes around to Stiles’s window.

“Hey Stiles, Derek,” she says. “We’ll get you guys out real soon okay?”

“That would be great, Clark,” Stiles says, his voice strained.

“Roberston’s calling your dad, too,” Clark tells them as the paramedic’s swoop in. She steps out of the way to let them get to work.

One of the paramedics test Stiles’s door, but the pole prevents it from opening.

“Guess we’ll have to do this the hard way,” she jokes, keeping the mood light and reaching in through the window. “My name’s Sarah, this is Mike. Can you tell me your names?

Mike goes through the trunk and over the back seat to get to Derek, who tries to brush him off. He heals quickly, Stiles doesn’t. Eventually, he resigns himself to the paramedic’s ministrations. Despite the healing factor, he _hurts._ The door pressing into his back is cutting off the feeling in his legs and working with the emergency services will get them out of the car faster than arguing with them.

Sarah and Mike work like a well-oiled machine, calling out instructions and passing things to each other while the firemen outside work to get Stiles and Derek free.

But the adrenaline of the accident is beginning to wear off and Derek notices Stiles is fading.

“I told you we should have taken my car,” Derek says, trying to catch his attention.

“How woul’ this be diff’rent?” Stiles asks. His eyes are closed, his breath fogging up the oxygen mask that he’s now sporting.

“My car has crumple zones.”

“Y’re a crum’e zone,” Stiles murmurs.

Beside him, Sarah’s brows knit together infinitesimally. Derek only notices because he hears her heartrate speed up a notch. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks. 

“His oxygen saturation- how much oxygen is in his blood- is lower than I’d like,” Sarah explains. “But we should have you both out of here soon.”

Derek is the first to be plucked from the wrecked vehicle. Once he’s out of the way they can reach Stiles.

The numbness in Derek’s legs is easing now that nothing is pressing on his spine and his healing has kicked in, but it’ll probably be a few hours before he can get up and walk. There are a few staff at the hospital in the know, so he’s not too concerned about freaking anyone out with his healing abilities.

He’s not ready to go to the hospital though, not while Stiles is still trapped.

He watches as Stiles is pulled from the wreckage on a backboard and placed on the ground. Someone kneels by his head, squeezing a bag that’s replaced the oxygen mask.

Then the ambulance doors close.

“No, wait!”

*

Melissa is waiting for him when the ambulance pulls up to the hospital. She holds Derek’s hand while he’s wheeled through to triage, murmuring reassurances the whole way.

Derek barely notices her. He can’t erase that last image of Stiles lying lifeless on the grass.

The triage nurse is a friend of Deaton’s. She and Melissa check Derek over before confirming that his healing seems to be kicking in. There are pin and needles running up and down his legs - it’s an improvement.

Melissa finds Derek a quiet spot to wait for Stiles, away from the hustle and bustle of the emergency room. They wait together until the commotion down the hall heralds Stiles arrival.

With a promise to keep him updated, Melissa ducks out of the room to find out what’s going on, leaving Derek alone with his thoughts.

His mind immediately turns back to that image.

Not Stiles. Please, not Stiles, he thinks to himself. Take me instead, but don’t take Stiles.

Almost thirty minutes after she left, Melissa returns with a wheelchair.

“They’re about to take him to surgery,” she explains quickly, helping Derek transfer to the chair. “His dad is with him now, if we’re quick you can see him before he goes upstairs.”

She pushes the chair back into the bustling emergency room, expertly dodging around medical staff. There’s a cubicle about halfway along the room with a drawn curtain. A nurse exits, holding aside the curtain for Melissa and Derek to head in.

Inside, on the bed, is Stiles.

The first thing Derek notices is his chest.

There’s a thin blanket across Stiles’s hips and legs. He’s bare from the waist up, the left side of his chest painted in pinks and purples and reds. There’s a tube protruding from between his ribs on the left side, the skin around it stained orange.

Melissa pushes Derek right up to the bed. John stands on the opposite side, his hand resting in his son’s hair.

Their eyes meet, and Derek looks down.

A tube snakes out from between Stiles’s slack lips and his chest rises and falls with a mechanical wheeze. Derek stares at it, unable to process anything else.

The loud rattling as the curtain is suddenly, pulls him abruptly from his reverie.

“Time’s up I’m afraid,” Melissa tells them. She pulls Derek away from the bed so he’s not in the way as Stiles is whisked away.

*

“-going to wake up properly this time?”

Stiles feels his lips pull down in a frown.

“He will if you don’t shut up.”

“Mama McCall said he should be waking up. I’m doing him a favour really, keeping him on track.”

Someone is holding his hand, running a thumb across his knuckles. He squeezes their fingers.

“Stiles?”

*

His lips are so dry. He tries to wet them with his tongue.

His mouth is so dry.

“Wake up sleepy head.”

He shifts, trying to get comfortable, and something pulls.

“D’rek?”

“I’m here.”

The hand Stiles is squeezing, squeezes back.

Stiles blinks, opening his eyes.

The pack is perched in various places around the room, watching Stiles expectantly.

He closes his eyes.

*

“Wha’ happened?”

Stiles can hear the rustle of Derek shifting in the chair beside the bed.

“We were in a car accident,” Derek tells him. “Do you remember?”

Nodding vaguely, Stiles looks around the room.

“Was my dad ‘ere?”

“Mel took him home for some dinner and to get some rest.”

“Mm, what time’s’t?”

“About seven pm.” Derek stretches his legs out with a slight wince. “You’ve been here for a bit over twenty-four hours. You’ve been drifting in an out for a while. Melissa said you probably wouldn’t remember.”

“When can I go home?”

Derek smiles. “A few days maybe, once the chest tube stops draining blood.”

“Huh?” Stiles is wearing a gown, but it’s not tied up. Derek helps him tug it down to reveal the tubing and bandages and the patchwork of bruises which have darkened over the day. “Are you okay?”

“Werewolf, remember.” He’d been walking again, albeit slowly, by the time Stiles was out of surgery. “I’m fine.”

“Good.”

Exhaustion clings to Stiles like mud, dragging him back down into the depths of sleep.

*

One week later, Stiles is released from hospital. He’s sent home his painkillers and antibiotics and instructions not to do any strenuous activity.

Derek and Stiles have very different ideas what constitutes strenuous activity. 

“Oh!” Stiles lurches upright, trying not to jostle his broken ribs. “I totally missed my exams. I need to email my professors.”

He goes to stand, but Derek is already there with Stiles’ laptop.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, scowling.

“I am resting,” Stiles protests, taking the computer. “The doctor also said I should be walking around a bit.”

“You did.”

“From bed to the couch? That hardly counts.” Stiles rolls his eyes fondly and pats the cushion beside him.

Derek sits down, guiding Stiles to lie back and snaking a hand under his shirt. He splays his fingers across the healing bruises and starts drawing out the pain that lies under Stiles’s skin.

“How about this, tomorrow-” he starts once Stiles has melted into a puddle human goo. “-you can walk from the bed to the kitchen.

“You drive a hard bargain, Derek Hale.” The last two words are almost lost around a yawn.

“What do you want to watch?” Moving to the opposite end of the couch, Derek settles in with Stiles’s feet in his lap.

“Hmm, The Mummy.”

Derek keeps one hand on Stiles’s ankle while he flips through the Netflix catalogue.

Stiles is asleep before the movie starts.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for some whump


End file.
